Absolution and Ablution
by UltramarineBlue
Summary: Rick's feelings of guilt over the loss of his friend Shane are mitigated somewhat by Daryl, who comforts him at a moment when Rick finally feels he can let go of the emotions he's been holding in.


A shaft of light from the bright noonday sun beamed through the cell bars. Rick paused at the doorway, the familiar reflex of caution at the entrance of a prison cell activating his senses, spiking his adrenaline. He needed to sit. He patted his hand on the thin mattress to test it out. A small cloud of dust rose up, swirling into the light. The room smelled musty and rank with mold and the spoiled, sad dreams of the legions of men who'd passed through this room, but never would again. Without thinking, Rick sat down hard and heavily. He found himself staring at a long streak, rust-colored, dripping, looking like redwood stain, with a streaky hand print next to it. Dried blood.

The sadness in this room, embedded into the walls like a photograph. "I failed you," Rick said out loud, surprising himself at the sound of his own voice. It echoed off the walls, sounding down the long, empty corridor. He didn't have to worry about Walkers coming in and trapping him in the room, but, looking down, he saw his hand on his service revolver, the thumb having cocked another bullet into the chamber. Why couldn't those reflexes have kicked in that long-ago day in the field, when he let his attention drop for mere moments, then felt the fiery, intense pain of the bullets slamming into his flank? Rick remembered Shane's face floating above him, his eyes filled with care and concern, his palm cradling the back of his head, before his attention drifted away into unconsciousness.

"I betrayed you, my friend," Rick said to nobody. The despair he felt was so keen and agonizing, he felt something break inside. Suddenly, tears fell in a long course down his face.

…A sound at the door. Rick was up and in a defensive firing position in a blur. Years of academy training, fine-tuned in roadhouse confrontations, now refined to that of a predatory animal after months of combat against Walkers...When his vision cleared, he found himself facing off against Daryl, whose crossbow was sprung at the ready. Once Daryl could see Rick recognized him, he aimed his crossbow at the low ceiling.

"Lori asked me to find you," Daryl mumbled in a low growl. "Wandering off like that will make us wonder where you are. We could all end up a Walker's dinner."

"I know that," Rick snapped back. "I just needed some peace and quiet for a bit. Can't a man have that?"

Daryl shrugged. "Sure you can. Just checking up on you, is all." He turned on his heel, preparing to leave.

"Wait..." Rick called after him. Daryl stopped at once, glancing back over his shoulder to Rick's voice. "Daryl, I..." He stopped. Daryl looked at him, his expression turning uncomfortable. Discomfort didn't look at all normal on Daryl, so something was up. Putting a hand to his face, Rick realized with a start what made Daryl look at him. He pulled away his hand from his face, seeing the fingers wet with his own tears.

"Oh fuck," sighed Rick as he sat down again, the rusted springs on the flimsy bedframe threatening to snap for the last time.

Darryl put his crossbow down, resting the handle against the foot of the bed. "Hey, hey, now," Daryl said, gently sitting alongside Rick. "Easy now. It's all right, man. I won't tell nobody."

"I'm a peace officer. I've seen things…done things…I don't know what…" Rick put up his hand, shielding Daryl from the sight of the tears, coming down uncontrollably now. He was unable to stop himself. It was the weakened dam after a punishing storm surge, finally breaking through. This man sitting next to me, Rick thought, could easily been one of any miscreants who wore Rick's cuffs and cooled off a weekend binge in the back of his Sherrif's car. But there was no way he could stop himself. The events of the last few weeks were just too damn much to handle. For anyone.

Rick felt a hand on his back, and jumped from the shock of the gentle touch. How long had it been since he'd felt the soothing gesture from someone else? Lori was just too wrapped up in her concern over the growing life inside her belly to care, and…and…he'd never feel that comforting warmth from…

Daryl's voice sounded in his ears. He could hear him from around the shield he made with his hands around his face, to hide the shame of a grown man's sorrows. "Shhh…easy now…tears of relief feel good. Lori's safe, Carl's safe…everyone is okay now, all because of you. Don't you fret now…"

Rick opened his palms and placed each hand on a knee. "It's not relief. It's guilt." He shook his head, trying to push away the thoughts that haunted him, the images that wouldn't let him be.

"What the hell do you have to feel guilty about?" Daryl retorted.

A rush of anger enveloped Rick again. "Why don't you just get the fuck out? Leave me alone with my grief?" Get your stink ass hillbilly self out of this cell!" Rick felt pure rage well up. "You don't know shit about me, and I don't give a fuck what you think," Rick shouted.

Daryl didn't move. He looked the part of a man who was used to getting a good what-for from whomever he'd talked to. He simply sat there, impassive, not moving off the bed. Rick turned back inward, ignoring Daryl's presence.

"Come with me," Daryl finally said, and got up, retrieving his crossbow from where it lay against the metal rail of the prison bed. He left the cell. Rick, curious, stood up, reholstering his sidearm and preparing for the unexpected. Daryl kept up a good pace ahead, making Rick almost struggle to keep up. They passed through the main floor and down a level, passing by chained doorways and passageways streaked with the horrific gore of a last stand against the dead. Rick was simply too tired to ask what he was being led to, but Daryl was one of them now, a member of the dwindling clan. He was trusted.

They got to a huge tiled room, spigots spaced out in rows along the wall. The floors hadn't seen a drop of water in so long that dust swirled in eddys as they walked forward. Finally, Daryl stopped against a row of steel basins. A neat stack of thin, scratch towels on a hard plastic cart, and a large industrial filler of liquid soap next to them. He cranked the handle of one, which sputtered forth a vile red-brown liquid that changed into amber, then ran clear.

"The cistern beneath us is full of fresh water," Daryl smiled, as he grabbed a washcloth and the jug of soap. "We got one of the generators to work, too," he added. "Only one, though," Daryl said, "We don't want to get the alarms going." Carefully tilting the jug forward, he poured out a silver-dollar sized dollop onto the hard cloth, then moistened it in the thin stream of water. "Now, get over here," Daryl ordered.

Rick's eyes flashed sternly at first, but then he obediently walked to the basin. "I can do this," Rick countered, as Daryl began to dab the soapy wet cloth onto his face. The water was actually warm. "I'm not crippled—get off me!" Daryl just continued on, deftly moving the cloth over Rick's face. He picked up one of Rick's hands and did the same. Now, the cloth was darkened with the soot and grime of weeks on the road. For all he knew it had wiped away some blood spattered when he had killed Shane.

He remembered when he and Shane had been in Academy together, and during a pickup game of hoops had zigzagged the wrong way, ending up bounding off each other. Shane's scent had risen up from his shirt in the brief, energetic contact when Rick had slammed his face into Shane's sternum, the valley where his pectorals, tough as sinews, met in the middle. Rick got a bloody nose, and Shane, when Rick's head bounced back up and struck Shane's jaw, had bitten his tongue. They came off the court blood dripping off each other, the bright red streaks mingling. From then on, they joked they were truly blood brothers, bonded by flesh.

Rick was grateful for Daryl's attentions. He felt so calmed by the warm water and soap, and despite the cheap generic scent in the soap, felt cleaned and new. Daryl moved the cloth quickly over both hands and arms, over Rick's hair, and finally, his neck. "Feels good, don't it?" Daryl asked, but didn't wait for an answer. He had used three towels, all of them gray with dirt. Without thinking, he reached for the buttons on Rick's shirt, when in a flash Rick held both wrists in a hard grip. "Nothin' wrong, man, just gotta do your shoulders too." Rick felt awkward and embarrassed, but he let go of Daryl's wrists and let his shirt be opened. The weeks on the road, with poor food and constant exertion had turned the muscular ridges of Rick's muscle into visible striations and taut ropes. He moved one arm, then the other, as Daryl removed his shirt. He finally looked into Daryl's eyes as the man completed the cleansing.

Rick cleared his throat. "I thank you kindly," he spoke, awkwardly.

Daryl's eyes cut to Rick's. "Ain't nothing. I know what it's like to lose someone. And not just my brother. I've lost and lost. I don't know what helps, but it seems to be good to just feel good for once. Let others do something for you. That helps me heal."

The air had turned to a slight cool. It was edging toward evening. They needed to secure and set up watch.

"I don't know what happened with Shane," Rick said, unbidden. He felt at ease, now that he was clean and the feel of the warmed wet towel had massaged him into a peaceful mood. "I swear, I think he was trying to get me to kill him. I don't know why he'd do that."

Daryl leaned against the steel basin, listening. His red hair was lit by the afternoon haze, but his face was in shadow, his expression unreadable. "You know Shane better than anyone. You know he had to be thinking of how you might think of him after Lori and he…"

"That…I could forgive that. I did forgive it. We were as close as any two men ever could be," Rick said. "I ended him. I ended my best friend's life, a man who is and always shall be my brother, my close companion."

"Guilt does funny things to your head," Daryl responded. "He got close to Lori, but he thought he'd lost you."

Suddenly, Rick understood. Lori had been their link, their bond. When Rick lay near death in the hospital bed, bandages and stitches holding his side together, for all the world just one last heartbeat away from being a Walker, Shane had kept his memory alive by that connection. Why did they never let each other know just how much the other had meant?

Daryl dropped the remaining washcloth into the sink with the others. He stood up, and enveloped his arms around Rick's body in a loose embrace. Rick felt the knots in his back loosen and he returned Daryl's embrace, but held his body tighter. "Thank you," Rick whispered into Daryl's ear. The rough bristle of Daryl's stubble scratched against his cheek. He remembered the feel of the dark beard of Shane's face when they had held each other as men, felt the comforting love of their arms against each other. The whiskers of Daryl's upper lip whisked against Rick's ear as Daryl said, "Shane will always be in your heart. He'll be where he is safe now. He'll never leave that place."

Rick pulled away and looked at the green eyes looking back. He nodded quietly, without speaking. The two men moved apart, Daryl handing Rick a chalk-green scrub that said "Infirmary" on the pocket, and held Rick's Sherrif uniform shirt while he put it on the rough cotton. Daryl gave Rick's shoulder a friendly last rub, and they walked to their small survial group together.


End file.
